


Scraps on a Silver Platter

by WretchedArtifact



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, During Canon, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WretchedArtifact/pseuds/WretchedArtifact
Summary: Ever since Victor and Yuuri danced in Sochi, Victor has been dreaming of Yuuri's touch.(Or: five times Yuuri touched Victor before the Cup of China, and one time he touched him after.)
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 7
Kudos: 169
Collections: Writing Rainbow Silver





	Scraps on a Silver Platter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_needless_litany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/gifts).



> Written for the _Writing Rainbow: Silver_ fic exchange! Hope you enjoy!

**1.**

The first time Yuuri touched Victor in Hasetsu was five days after Victor arrived, as they were getting out of the hot springs. Yurio had gotten out first, with a look of embarrassed fury in his eyes to indicate they better not even _think_ of following him too closely, and Victor and Yuuri tactfully waited a few minutes so he could have the showers and locker room to himself. When the two of them finally stepped out of the water, naked and dripping wet, Victor felt the heel of his foot skid slightly on the rock. 

Yuuri, who had spent the last five days ducking away from all forms of Victor’s touch, reached out to steady him: one hand firm under Victor’s elbow, his other hand flat against the bare skin of Victor’s back. “Careful, it’s slippery,” Yuuri said, with the cadence of someone who had repeated the warning to a thousand onsen patrons over the course of his life. 

Victor recovered his footing, his startled heart ticking faster. It had been four very long months since the last time Yuuri touched Victor of his own initiative. Back in Sochi, when the two of them danced together, Yuuri’s hands had been just as firm and supportive on Victor’s body as they were now, steadying and positioning him without any hesitation at all. Only back then, Yuuri had done it while laughing and smiling. Yuuri hadn’t laughed or smiled very much at all since Victor arrived. 

“Thanks,” Victor said, and Yuuri let go of him. For a moment, Victor’s tingling skin held onto the shape of Yuuri’s hands—the press of his palm, the splay of his fingers—and then the sensation faded. 

It was something. It was a scrap, a crumb, a nicety that probably didn’t mean what Victor wanted it to mean. But it was something. 

**2.**

The second time Yuuri touched Victor was two days later, on the walk home from Ice Castle. Yuuri and Yurio were exhausted from practice and walking much more slowly than Victor, and Victor kept walking ahead of them unthinkingly and then having to wait for them to catch up. At one point, he remembered a piece of criticism he’d meant to give Yurio earlier, and he turned around to face the two of them and started walking backward. “Yurio, I meant to talk to you about the entrance to your quad Salchow,” Victor said. 

“Shut up,” Yurio said sourly. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Victor had gotten used to this sort of response to his criticisms and forged ahead anyway. “I noticed in the lead-up that you—”

Something hard whacked against the back of Victor’s head. He staggered for a moment, confused, and felt something catch and pull painfully at his hair. He angled his eyes upward: he had walked directly into a low-hanging tree branch. 

Yuuri’s face filled with concern at the same time Yurio’s face filled with glee. “Don’t move,” Yuuri said, hurrying forward. He went on his tiptoes in front of Victor and reached up, trying to untangle Victor’s hair from the leaves. 

Yurio snickered, crossing his arms over his chest with satisfaction. “Even the trees want you to shut up,” he said. 

It should’ve been embarrassing. It _was_ embarrassing, a little—Victor could feel the heat rising up in his face. But Yuuri had come to his aid so quickly, and now he was standing so close to Victor, his fingers carefully separating out the strands of Victor’s hair. After a moment, the painful tug on Victor’s head relented. “Just a second, you have some...” Yuuri said, and he combed his fingertips through Victor’s hair. He pulled away bits of twig and sakura petal and flicked them onto the ground. 

Victor had always loved the feeling of people touching his hair. In Sochi, Yuuri had dipped Victor mid-dance, cupping Victor’s head in his hand, and the feeling of those confident fingertips pushing through Victor’s hair had sent a zig-zagging shiver from Victor’s scalp all the way down his spine. Yuuri’s fingertips were not quite as confident now, but they were careful, and that was almost as good. Victor had spent seven days looking for any sign at all that Yuuri cared about him.

Yuuri took a step back. “Sorry about that,” he said, like he was taking responsibility for all of Japan’s trees. 

“Oh, no, it was my fault,” Victor said hastily. “I should be watching where I’m going.”

Over Yuuri’s shoulder, Yurio pretended to retch. Yurio knew full well how much Victor wanted Yuuri to pay attention to him. “Hurry up already, I’m starving,” Yurio said. 

The three of them started walking again. The memory of Yuuri’s fingertips tingled against Victor’s scalp the whole way home.

**3.**

Victor’s first few weeks as Yuuri’s official coach were not the easiest. The two of them didn’t gel as coach and student right away, and whenever Yuuri got frustrated, his instinctive tendency was to pull away and hide. Victor knew he shouldn’t take it personally, but it was hard not to—he felt Yuuri’s avoidance physically, like an itch on his untouched skin. 

But things improved over time. The two of them learned to talk to each other more plainly, and listen to each other more carefully. Yuuri gained confidence in the choices he was making on the ice, and at the end of practices, he would stay and talk to Victor, instead of making an excuse and hurrying away. One afternoon, as Yuuri came off the ice, Victor said hopefully, “Would you want to take a walk with me and Makkachin before dinner? I wanted to give her some time to run around on the beach.”

“Sure,” Yuuri said, with so little hesitation that Victor’s heart thrilled in his chest. Yuuri picked up one of his skate guards and lifted his foot to snap it on, still standing up. “Did you want to go home and get her, and I’ll meet you there? Or did you want to—”

Yuuri’s balance wobbled unexpectedly, and on instinct Victor held out his arm. Yuuri grabbed Victor’s forearm and steadied himself. “Sorry,” Yuuri said, looking a little embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help,” Victor said, trying his best to sound casual. Yuuri finished snapping the skate guard on and let go of Victor to pick up the other one, and with barely suppressed eagerness Victor offered his arm up again for support. 

Yuuri hesitated. Then he reached out and grasped Victor’s forearm, leaning on him slightly as he lifted up his foot. Victor tried not to let his happiness show on his face too overtly. He wasn’t sure which was better: the warm pressure of Yuuri’s hand, or the knowledge that Yuuri trusted him enough to hold onto him. 

Victor was a quick learner. In the days after that, he always made a point to be right by the exit when Yuuri came off the ice, just in case the moment arose where he could casually offer his arm. The next time it happened, Yuuri only hesitated for a second, then clasped Victor’s arm without apologizing. “Thanks,” Yuuri said. 

“Of course,” Victor said, like fireworks weren’t going off underneath his skin. 

Things were improving steadily between them. Yuuri had worked through his anxiety and reached out to an old friend from Detroit, and she agreed to work on a new piece of music for his free skate. While they waited for it arrive, Victor started working with Yuuri on the quads he hadn’t mastered yet, and he exhausted himself trying to keep up with Yuuri’s seemingly boundless stamina. At the end of one particularly grueling practice, Victor came off the ice and leaned heavily against the boards, panting. Now _he_ was the one who had clearly been indulging in too much katsudon. Normally that was the point when he’d offer up his arm to Yuuri, but in that moment he was so tired that he completely forgot. 

Yuuri picked up one of his skate guards, put his hand on Victor’s shoulder for balance, and leaned down to snap it on. The unexpectedness of it sent a startled, delighted shiver through Victor. The warm cup of Yuuri’s hand felt intimate; the tips of his fingers were brushing very close to the nape of Victor’s neck. And Yuuri hadn’t apologized first, or tentatively asked permission. He just reached out and held onto him, like he knew Victor would be okay with it. 

Which he was. 

He really, really was. 

**4.**

Yuuri was extremely nervous before the Grand Prix assignments came out. After his disappointing previous season, he seemed to think he might only get a single pity invitation to the NHK Trophy—which was absolutely ridiculous, as Victor kept telling him. So when Yuuri burst into Victor’s bedroom one evening with his phone clutched in his hands, choking out “They’re here, I can’t look, you have to look,” Victor didn’t feel the slightest trepidation. He took Yuuri’s phone and read the announcement. 

When he glanced back up, he saw Yuuri had his face buried in his hands, like even the sight of Victor reading was too much for him to take. Victor waited for a few seconds, until finally Yuuri peeked out through his fingertips and saw Victor looking at him. _“Victor,”_ Yuuri complained, sounding like he was close to choking on his own suspense. 

Victor smiled and raised one finger. “Cup of China,” he said. He raised a second finger. “Rostelecom Cup.”

He watched the information slowly process on Yuuri’s face. He had gotten two assignments— _obviously_ —and neither of them were because Japan’s skating federation was taking pity on him. Yuuri’s expression went from agonized suspense, to trepidation, to something dancing on the edge of—relief? Hope? Happiness?

Then Yuuri launched himself forward and buried himself in Victor’s arms. Victor was so startled that he almost dropped Yuuri’s phone, his arms wrapping around Yuuri on pure instinct. “Yuuri, you’re so funny,” Victor said, almost laughing in his surprise. He leaned his cheek against the side of Yuuri’s head. “This is the least surprising news ever.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Yuuri said into Victor’s shoulder. The squeeze of his arms was wonderfully tight. Even in Sochi, when the two of them danced together, the press of their bodies hadn’t been this direct. Victor loved dancing with Yuuri—the seductive, tantalizing, insinuating magic of it—but he loved this even more. They had been strangers in Sochi, but this moment was pure, trusting familiarity. 

Yuuri’s phone vibrated twice in Victor’s hand. Victor adjusted his grip on Yuuri just enough to look at the screen. “Oh, you’re already getting congratulations from people!” Victor said. “Minako wants to invite everyone over to the onsen for a celebration.”

“No,” Yuuri said.

Victor pulled back a little, just enough so that Yuuri could see his face, and put on his most innocent, pleading, beseeching expression. “Don’t make that face at me,” Yuuri said. 

Victor made the face even harder. 

“Ugh,” Yuuri groaned, and buried his head against Victor’s shoulder again. “All right.”

Victor smiled with secret triumph into Yuuri’s hair. 

**5.**

When the car dropped off Victor and Yuuri in front of the venue for the Cup of China, Victor felt an uncharacteristic twinge of nerves, low in his stomach. He was nervous for Yuuri, of course—Yuuri’s experience at the block championships in Japan had been rocky, to say the least—but he was also a little nervous for himself. Everyone inside the rink knew Victor as a competitor, as someone at the top of his game, but today he was walking inside as Yuuri’s coach. And—he could admit it to himself—he was _not_ at the top of his game when it came to coaching. Yuuri was an excellent skater, and Victor was very proud of the programs they had put together, but trying to motivate Yuuri made Victor feel like he was constantly stumbling around in the dark. The things that worked one day didn’t always work the next; one of Victor’s most innocuous comments might send Yuuri into an unexpected tailspin. 

And most of the time they muddled through it and came out the other end just fine. They trusted each other, even if they didn’t always understand each other. But it was one thing to stumble and fumble in the privacy of Ice Castle Hasetsu, and it was another thing to do it in front of the eyes of the world. 

The two of them stopped in front of the rink entrance and looked up at the tall arena. Victor glanced over at Yuuri and saw the tension in his shoulders, the apprehension in his eyes. “Ready?” Victor asked. 

Yuuri glanced over at him, too. And maybe he saw something in Victor’s posture as well, some hidden tightness or tension, because he looked down at the space in between them and held out his hand for Victor’s. 

Victor’s heart jumped in his chest. After so many months of working together, Yuuri didn’t shy away from him anymore—he wasn’t afraid to touch Victor’s arm to get his attention, or lean on his shoulder for balance, or hug him before a competition began. But this was the first time he’d ever offered Victor his hand to hold. It seemed like a different kind of touch, compared to those other ones. Less incidental. Less casual. 

Less...easy to explain away. 

Victor lifted his hand, and Yuuri took it. Their palms folded together, their fingers intertwining. And this time, strangely, Victor didn’t feel fireworks, or butterflies, or dizzy shivers running up his spine. 

Yuuri’s touch made the ground feel more solid underneath Victor’s feet. 

“Ready,” Yuuri said.

The two of them went inside the rink. 

**+1**

The first time Yuuri kissed Victor of his own initiative, it was approximately 10 seconds after they got into their cab after the medal ceremony at the Cup of China. Victor said the name of their hotel, the driver lifted a hand in acknowledgment, and then Yuuri’s hands were on Victor’s jacket, pulling him in by the lapels. “Oh,” Victor said with surprise, a split-second before their lips met. 

And _there_ were the butterflies, the dizzy shivers, the fireworks going off in Victor’s head. Nothing about the kiss was tentative—the way Yuuri’s hand cupped the side of Victor’s face, or the eager, smiling clumsiness of his mouth. For a second, it made Victor think of Sochi, and the way Yuuri had thrown his arms around Victor’s neck at the end of the night, so happy and sure of himself. 

But the two moments couldn’t compare. Yuuri had been a stranger then, mysterious underneath his tipsy charm, and now Yuuri was...Yuuri. _His_ Yuuri. Confusing and anxious; brilliant and beautiful; an endless fount of surprises. 

When the two of them pulled apart, Yuuri said, sounding breathless, “Sorry.” Which was also very Yuuri of him. “I just...didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Victor didn’t know if he was talking about the wait between the end of the competition and now, or the eleven long months that had passed since the first night they danced together. 

But either way, Victor couldn’t agree more.


End file.
